Morning Routine
by Sokerchick
Summary: A glimpse into Gibbs' day.


**Morning routine**

Every morning when Gibbs wakes up he finds himself in the same position. No matter how he arranged himself in bed the night before he wakes up in exactly the same location every morning. His eyes open to the sight of his right hand stretched out clutching cool sheets where the fingers still expect to feel warm skin, still expect to be wrapped in red-orange strands of hair. Every morning his treacherous fingers still expect to find his wife, Shannon, lying next to him in bed no matter how many times he's tried to tell them she won't be there.

That's usually what breaks the peaceful silence of his body. Because every morning before that old hurt resurfaces all his other old hurts lie dormant. His body is quiet and pliant and he can almost imagine that the next few minutes won't hurt like hell. Being a Marine, and generally a practical person Gibbs knows he can't fool himself for long. Like ripping a band-aid off he propels himself from his bed in one swift, albeit jerky, motion.

Finally upright he moves to the bathroom shedding and folding clothing as he goes. His bad knee aches, his back protests, the joints of his fingers throb and all the old bones that have suffered hurts in the past twinge. But he's never been one to give into pain. He gets past it by continuing to move so by the time he passes the dresser he's nude and he sets a neatly folded bundle of clothing atop it.

Climbing into a shower turned hotter than most people can stand he allows the pulsing waves of water to wash over him and relax as many of the muscles as possible. This is a newer addition to the routine. One that cropped up in the last few years. He used to be in and out of the shower in under ten minutes but now he allows himself five minutes of respite to ease the aches in his body. Not an easy thing to admit for a man so used to being fit and relying on his muscles to get him through the day. Not to say he's let himself go, he still runs a few days a week, still exercises with regularity, can still see his feet clearly without the bulge of a beer gut getting in the way which is more than can be said for most men his age. But he's made this concession to his aging body and it has made the mornings better.

A quick towel off and dress before he makes the bed with the same precision he applies to the rest of his life. Not a motion wasted, not an ounce of energy exerted that can be used for something else. Conservation in case his energy needs to be used to save his life or that of a friend or victim. He learned that lesson the hard way in the Marines and had it hammered home through years of law enforcement so that even his rigid, precise motions have meaning at an hour when most people haven't even begun to wake up.

Downstairs he pulls out three eggs and assorted vegetables and makes an omelet. Here the routine varies, some mornings he even throws in some bacon. Not today, though and the omelet is prepared in the few minutes it takes the coffee to percolate. His ancient coffee pot has served him well over the last decade plus and like him it has a few wounds. The dent in it from where DiNozzo almost laid an entire Thanksgiving turkey on top of it and a scratch where he startled Ducky mid-pour and struck it on the bottom of the cabinet. Like him, its battered but serviceable and it still makes damn good coffee.

He sits at his kitchen table and stares out the window while he eats his breakfast and slowly sips java strong enough to kill lesser men. The birds flutter to and from the feeders Abby bought him one year for his birthday and birdhouses he's made over the years. The squirrels fight a never-ending battle chasing each other around the base of the oak that has been growing in his back yard since before he and his family moved into this house.

A quick glance at his watch and a stop at the safe he keeps on the family room bookshelf and he's out the door. He parks in the same spot he's parked in for the last 10 years and instead of walking into the building turns and walks off down the street. He makes it to the coffee shop and has $1.84 in exact change to hand to the boy behind the counter. No words are exchanged but a large, dark coffee appears on the counter and the boy seems satisfied with the amount of money in his hand. Gibbs remembers when coffee was a nickel.

He walks back to the Navy Yard at his own pace. Brisk but never seeming to be in a rush. Nodding at the guard on duty he's admitted and heads for the bullpen. Few people are here at this hour and he settles in to his desk booting up his computer and opening the files on his desk. He glances at the tiny clock in the lower right hand side of the screen 6:42 AM. Good just enough time to get some work done before the kids appear.


End file.
